In Need of Assistance
by hidden-in-a-tree
Summary: No one else can stop you from being scared. You’ve gotta do it yourself, and sometimes … you just can’t. Oneshot. Drama/Angst. Nick/Greg, but mostly Greg. Greg’s POV. Slash.


**Author's Note: **Ahoy, everyone! Shocked to see me? I know I'm surprised that I actually wrote something. I just haven't felt like writing fanfics lately. My time's been really taken up by life. 'Sides, I don't even know what's been happening on CSI anymore. I haven't even been on _The Fort_ in ages. *sigh* Oh well. Anyways –

Oneshot. Drama/Angst. Nick/Greg, but mostly Greg. Greg's POV. Slash.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own most of the characters mentioned.

**Acknowledgements: **Thanks, as always, to Amanda for proofreading and for telling me when I am spouting complete nonsense.

**Summary: **No one else can stop you from being scared. You've gotta do it yourself, and sometimes … you just can't.

**In Need of Assistance**

Greg sighed involuntarily, glanced down at the body lying on the metal table, and then took another picture.

_Flash._

Another life lost violently.

_Flash._

Another person whose life was destroyed at another human's hand.

Greg lowered the camera and picked up Doc Robbins' report. His tired eyes strained to focus on the spidery writing.

_Name: Abbie Ila-Jean Tesselman  
Sex: Female  
Age: 8_

Greg felt his eyes slide from the paper to the diminutive form lying still and silent beneath the white sheet, recalling the scene in which he and Nick had arrived at her house, their kits in their hands.

The flashing police lights made Greg's eyes water, as usual, and he stared down at the ground as he followed the senior CSI into the house, where David was crouching beside the vic. Abbie Tesselman was lying on her back; dark burgundy pools of blood surrounded her small body, staining her clothing. Bloody footprints were everywhere, and Greg heard Nick sigh.

The Texan threw a glance at the little girl lying in her own lifeblood before turning to David.

David pushed his glasses up his nose and said, "It looks like she was stabbed to death. There are puncture wounds on her chest, and one went right into the heart, by the looks of it."

"Crime of passion …" Greg muttered. His eyes were still focused on the little girl's face as Nick asked about the time of death.

"About half an hour ago. The paramedics couldn't save her …" David trailed off, his face stony as he turned back to his open bag.

"That explains the foot prints all over," Nick commented. David said something under his breath as he got up, intending to leave, and Greg would still have been lost in his memories if not for a loud voice from the hall that brought him back to the present.

Abbie Tesselman –

_(he knew he should only refer to her as 'the vic,' but he couldn't do it this time)_

– looked oddly peaceful. Her blonde hair was clean and seemed almost fresh, except for the red tinge to it that was almost masked by the harsh glare from the ceiling lights. Her skin was smooth and the color of skim milk. Her small lips were set in a line, and Greg had to remind himself that she was dead. She would never smile again. Eight years old and her life was over.

Without realizing it, Greg had lowered his camera and was leaning closer to her. He wanted to tell her that it'd be okay, that she was in a better place now, but he couldn't.

First of all, talking to a dead little girl whom he was supposed to be processing might send up a red flag for anyone who overheard him. Normally, crime scene investigators didn't say anything to the victim. Or, well, not that Greg knew of.

Secondly, he couldn't tell Abbie that she was in a better place because he didn't know for sure. In his mind, he could still picture the insane amount of blood that had come from her tiny body. How could she be in a better place when she had to go through so much unendurable pain to get there? Abruptly, the thought struck him: what did it feel like to die?

Abbie's eyes opened. They were a forget-me-not blue that sparkled in the dim lighting. Her small hands bent and she pushed herself into a sitting position, the white sheet still draped over her. She smiled at Greg, and he felt his heart rate increase.

This couldn't be happening.

Greg had seen the stitches that Doc Robbins had sewn into the little girl's chest after the autopsy.

This could not be happening.

"It is," Abbie assured him, her smile still on her angelic face. Greg couldn't respond; his tongue felt dead in his mouth and his brain would not function properly.

Abbie's eyes twinkled at him, and she coughed softly before saying, "It feels cold."

Her words felt heavy in Greg's almost numb mind. "The table?"

Abbie shook her head, her smile slipping a little bit. "Death."

Greg felt his eyes narrow as he stared down at the little girl, the dead little girl who was speaking to him, telling him of death. Again, he reminded himself that this could NOT be happening. Had he smoked something before coming in to work …?

Abbie shook her head again, her smile disappearing completely. She appeared irritated. "Just because you don't believe it, doesn't mean it can't happen."

"You're dead," Greg said out loud. "Dead people don't talk. Dead people don't read minds. Dead people don't tell the living what it's like to die."

"I think you're scared."

Greg was struck dumb again, and he felt his mouth fall open a little. He quickly shut his mouth and cleared his throat. "Scared of what?" he asked, thinking himself completely ridiculous, but he was curious in spite of himself.

Innocence shone from Abbie's eyes as she softly said, "Dying."

"Evidently I have nothing to fear," Greg muttered, "since dead people aren't really dead, it seems."

"I know I'm dead," Abbie told him softly, "and you know it too. If I was alive, d'you think I'd be here talking to you about it?"

Greg had nothing to say to that. He silently observed the seemingly alive child in front of him, wondering what the hell was going on. She did have a point, though.

"So what if I'm scared of death?" Greg finally asked, the words low, almost a whisper. "I don't know what happens afterwards, I don't know what it'll feel like, I don't know anything about it. All I know is that I won't be alive anymore."

Abbie was nodding, almost as if she understood everything Greg had said, but she couldn't have. She was eight years old. An eight year old couldn't understand Greg's fears. Hell, even he didn't understand them.

"It feels cold," Abbie repeated gently.

Greg raised his eyebrows. "Cold. That's it? But … you …"

Abbie's shimmering eyes left Greg's chocolate brown ones and looked down at the sheet covering her chest. She peeked below it, stared for a second, and then tucked it around herself again. To Greg, it seemed as if she wasn't even alarmed by the heavy thread that was now woven through her skin, or the inch deep wounds that had killed her.

"It hurt, too," she said, her eyes darkening to a stormy sea blue. "But then it went cold, and then I was gone. The cold … kind of started in my toes and my fingers. It worked its way up to my brain, and then it all went dark, like I was falling asleep, except I never woke up."

The last sentence struck Greg oddly. What eight year old would say that?

"How old are you?" he asked suddenly, a hunch forming at the back of his mind.

Abbie shrugged, a grin tugging at her lips. "No one's age really reflects how old they truly are."

"You're older than eight."

Abbie said nothing in response; she merely looked at him, her face still radiating an innocence that shook Greg.

"Does that mean that … souls are real?" Greg questioned weakly. Sure, some people believed in souls, like his Nana Olaf, but he didn't. That kind of thing was too … intangible.

Again, Abbie shrugged. "It depends what you believe in."

"What did you believe in?" Greg asked, tugging on a stool and sitting down, facing the young girl sitting on the metal table.

"I … didn't know what dying was, at the time," the girl told him matter-of-factly. Her eyes didn't betray any emotions. No fear, no wonderment, nothing.

"Were you scared?" Greg inquired, his question sounding childish to him.

Abbie nodded. "Yeah, I was. Really scared. I …" her facial features trembled for a second, "I was crying. All I remember is how much it hurt, the cold, and me crying." Her eyes sought Greg's again. "I wanted my mom, but she wasn't there. I couldn't see her."

"She was there," he told her softly. Greg cleared his throat and continued when Abbie's eyes contracted in confusion. "Brass – a friend of mine – talked to the witnesses. Your mom was there. I remember him talking to her. She had blonde hair, right? Curly blonde hair?"

Abbie's lips seemed to shiver violently, her eyes scrunching up. Greg wanted to hug her, to say something comforting, but he did nothing except stay silent.

"Why are you here?" Greg asked gently, after waiting for her tears to subside.

"I heard your thoughts," she mumbled, and then sniffed. She continued in a stronger voice: "You sounded scared, and I didn't want anyone else to be scared."

Greg swallowed and then said in a rush: "I'm still scared. I – it feels weird to admit it, but I am."

Abbie took a shuddering breath, closed her eyes for a second, and replied, "I was told that I didn't have to make you unscared. They said that you'll have to get over it yourself, 'cause nothing anyone else can say will make you stop being scared."

Greg's mouth was dry as he said, "Who told you?"

Abbie's eyes were closed as she slowly lowered herself back down on to the metal table. No tears could be seen on her peaceful face. She didn't answer.

"You can't leave yet. There wasn't any point to you even speaking to me!"

The little girl opened her right eye, and she focused it on Greg. "Did you learn anything?"

"I – um …"

Abbie closed her eye and sighed softly before she was still again.

Greg couldn't even move. All his thoughts were swirling pell-mell throughout his mind, and he couldn't make sense of many of them.

He hadn't asked Abbie who'd killed her.

He hadn't asked her what happened when someone dies.

Heaven? Hell? Reincarnation?

Her words floated to the front of his mind: " … you'll have to get over it yourself, 'cause nothing anyone else can say will make you stop being scared."

What did that _mean_? What did any of it mean?

Had this even happened?

The door opened behind Greg, and he whirled around, his heart racing erratically. Nick stood before him, his face concerned.

"Greg, are you okay?" the Texan asked, walking up to Greg and putting his hand on the younger man's shoulder. "You're shaking!"

"I'm fine," Greg muttered, trying to calm down his wild heart. Why was it so hard to tell if things were real or not?

Nick cast a sad glance down at Abbie, and then his gaze returned full force to Greg's eyes. "Is it the case that's bothering you?"

"I – what – no," Greg told the older man, forcing himself to not start hyperventilating. After a few seconds, his breathing had slowed down, along with his heartbeat.

"What's wrong, G?" Nick asked more quietly, moving closer to the younger man. Greg couldn't look into those beautiful, warm, rich coffee brown eyes that he knew so well. He also knew that if he told Nick what had just happened –

_(had it even happened?)_

– he might not be working at the Las Vegas crime lab for much longer. No one would believe him, and even Greg thought he was going crazy.

A little dead girl (who's age was a mystery to Greg now) did not randomly start talking to him because his thoughts sounded scared. It wasn't possible.

"Nothing," Greg finally answered, looking into the older man's eyes, hoping that his true thoughts wouldn't show on his face. Nick didn't ask again, so Greg guessed that the older man was either letting Greg have his space or he actually hadn't shown anything in his eyes.

Nick raised his hand and gently rubbed the back of Greg's neck, sending shivers down the younger man's spine.

"Okay," the Texan said, smiling briefly before turning away, his attention back on the case. They were at work, of course.

A question was now at the tip of Greg's tongue, and he hesitated before asking, but he couldn't help himself. "Nick, what do you think it feels like to die?"

Nick's back stiffened slightly as he turned around, but his face was devoid of emotion. "What does it feel like?"

"Yeah."

"I dunno, G. Probably tired …" the older man said, turning away from Greg and picking up the coroner's report.

"Tired?"

"Yeah …" Nick mumbled absentmindedly, his eyes roving the paper. "After fighting to live, the person would probably be tired …"

"Even someone who's been alive for forty years and dies of natural causes?"

"Mhmm … life's tiring, Greg. I'm sure you know that."

Greg swallowed, moved closer to the metal table that stood between himself and Nick, and then asked, "And what do you think happens after you die?"

Nick's dark eyes appeared over the top of the paper, and then disappeared again. "G, you know if Grissom were here, he'd tell us to get back to work, right?" The Texan shook his head slightly before saying, "But he's not here at the moment …"

Greg nodded and waited. Finally, Nick sighed, and his voice was weary as he said: "I'm not sure, Greg. I don't think anything happens. You just … die. What else is there? I don't believe in any religion, and I think it's all just wishful thinking. I don't believe in living again, either – wishful thinking as well."

Inexplicably, the younger man felt his eyes drawn to Abbie's face, and he later thought it was a trick of the shadows, but for a second, he was sure she had smiled.

Again, that was impossible.

Wasn't it?

"Why all the questions?" Nick asked, putting down the paper and leaning on the counter.

Greg looked down at his hands. "I dunno, I just – I dunno." He could feel the older man's eyes burning holes into him, but he didn't look up.

"Well, Greg, I don't think I really helped answer your questions, but we should really get back to work."

Greg nodded, still looking down at his hands.

_Had she smiled?_

_How was the even possible? Dead people didn't smile._

_He was sure she had spoken … had he been dreaming?_

_Who actually dreams with their eyes open, though?_

"Greg?"

Greg's eyes snapped up, and Nick was once again staring at him.

"Are you ready to get back to work?" the Texan asked, his voice not impatient or anything, just tired.

Greg swallowed, cast another glance at the body on the table and then said, "Yeah. I'm ready."

There would be time to contemplate about what had happened. There would be time to question his sanity later, but right now, Nick was right. They had to get back to work. There was a case to be solved, and now it was personal. Somehow Abbie didn't seem to have any lasting feelings about having her life wrenched away so cruelly, but her mother certainly did, and now Greg did too.

It was the least he could do, since he couldn't help her.

Besides, it didn't appear as if she needed help anyways.


End file.
